


Golden in the Sunlight

by Agent C (arh581958)



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: A love Story, Angel!Clint, Fairietale motifs, Fluff, Hint of Domestic, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Oblivious!Phil, Sexual Tension, Slightly Oblivious!Clint, Supernatural - Freeform, True Love, UST, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Sexual Tension, alternative universe - supernatural, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 01:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5950363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Agent%20C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson was an ordinary guy until the day that a guy came out of nowhere with a bullet wound to his thigh that was meant for <i>him</i>. One thing is for sure, it's unlike anything that he ever expected. </p><p>(Or: the love story between a mortal and an angel)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden in the Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Nerdling_Queen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdling_Queen/pseuds/Nerdling_Queen) who is such a fantastic beta and gave me the challenge to write a winged!Clint fic since December. I wrote this in time for valentines. I hope you like it darling~ :) 
> 
> All the old cliches written into one.

Clint Barton once had wings. 

They were big, bold, beautiful wings with a span twice the length of his body and feathers that would glisten in the sunlight. He was the envy of the skies, the fastest flyer in the corps and had an aim that sent even the seasoned agents crying. He worked swiftly, efficiently, and perfectly every single time—until the day he lost his wings. 

Every day, he missed them. He still believed that it was worth it. 

***

Phil Coulson was an ordinary man. All the adventure and excitement came early in his life. 

At 8, he survived nearly drowning in a frozen pond after the ice had cracked.

At 10, he lost control of his sled and ran straight through the busy street, coming out unscathed on the other side with a fallen tooth. 

At 12, he got hit by a rogue baseball bat on the head by one of his careless classmates during varsity tryouts. The concussion made him conclude that baseball wasn't his thing.

At 14, he nearly fell of a rope bridge during a camping exercise in the boy's scouts. His dorky Captain America shield bag got snagged on a plank. It gave him the three seconds he needed to grab hold of the frayed rope and haul himself up. 

He shipped himself off to military boot camp because of a strong sense of nationalism. There, he nearly died from the training every single day but managed to survive every time. He scraped through the drills, learned hand-to-hand, and excelled at fire arms. He stayed in touch with his family, made a few lifetime friends, and finally felt like he belonged. 

But, something was missing. 

At 25, he went on his first tour in Iraq. He lived in the barracks. On his first night there, he drew the short straw and was sent to patrol the neighboring village. The entire compound was gone by the time the patrol party returned, only a crater remained here it should be.

They rest of them were sent home. 

Phil stayed. 

He stayed and avenged his fallen brothers-at-arms by blowing up the nearest enemy base with Marcus Johnson. 

At 26, legally dead, he joined Marcus in SHIELD.

Fast-forward ten years later, and Phil was living the good life as assistant director next to Marcus (who now called himself Nick Fury). His people are great: smart, talented, and deadly—the best of the best. 

***

That's when he met the punk named Clint. 

***

Their first meeting involved a lot of rain, gunfire, and blood. It wasn’t the classiest of first meetings but it would do. Phil peered over the injured man, who looked no older than his early twenties, leaning against the dirty brick wall and cursing like a well-seasoned sailor. A strange urge to  _ protect _ urged his body to move. He sprang into action, undoing his tie and making a makeshift tourniquet on the man’s upper thigh and stopping more blood from slipping. 

“Clint,” the man rasped, hissing as Phil increased pressure on his leg. “Fuck that hurts like a bitch. If you squeeze any fucking tighter, I swear like fuck that my fucking legs is going to fucking fall the fuck off, you fucktard.” 

Phil does, in retaliation, squeeze harder. “Watch your mouth, punk,” he warned, with a sadistic smirk on his lips. He brought his watch to his lips and contacted Fury. “Marcus, this is Cheese, we’ve got a situation.” 

“Like fuck you do,” the kid hissed, struggling out of Phil’s hold. “Getderfakoff’em” he slurred, eyes already reeling to the back of his head as more blood seeped out from his struggle. “Geter off, geter off, I need to… need to…” his head lolled to the side as he blacked out. 

“Shit,” Phil cursed, sliding a leg between the kid’s thighs and pinning the kid to the wall with his weight. He adjusted his stance to get a better hold on the kid’s surprisingly bulky frame. The unconscious boy sagged down making Phil grunt in effort. 

“Marcus, up the priority on that. Kid’s passed out. I need back-up.” 

***

Back-up came in the form of a stealth jet and a team of super secret spy agents pouring into the small alley way. They were all dressed in black form fitting, breathable Kevlar tactical suits, with weapons holstered into every part imaginable. 

For a reason unknown to him. Phil could not stay away from the unconscious man laid down on the stretcher. 

“I’m coming with you,” He barked like an order with no room for arguments. 

***

Clint crashed two times in transit and one time on the table in SHIELD’s O.R.

Phil punched the vending machine so hard that it left a dent on the side of the metal. 

***

_ Clint sat on the edge of the fountain with a view of the beautiful Cape Malea horizon. He saw endless blue ocean joining the cloudless skies. It was after dawn and the sun’s rays covered the mountain where he stayed to wait for his final judgement. He knew that his faith was the complete opposite of this day—dull and dim against the fine weather.  _

_ “So this is where you’ve been hiding,” Natasha said, coming out from behind the trees with her long beautiful red wings fluttering behind her. Clint stared at her feathers with envy which he did not deserve. She blushed and turned away, tucking them until they folded on her back. “I’m sorry, Clint.”  _

_ “It’s not your fault, Tasha.” He told her with a wry smile, “It was my choice.”  _

_ “You’re a fool little brother.” She chastised. Her long sheer gown flowed aimlessly as the breeze picked-up, swirling around her like water, revealing more flesh that mortal deemed decent. She took a seat beside him, leaning into his arm, wing draping over his shoulder.  _

_ Clint missed the warmth of feathers behind him. He relaxed into the touch.  _

_ “Do you know what mother has planned for you?”  _

_ “No,” Clint said with a shrug, “But I already know that it’ll be difficult. Mother is… sometimes a scary woman.”  _

_ Natasha laughed, nuzzling her face into his side. “Do you regret it?” She asked, glancing up. They both understood what she was talking about—his wings, the wing he had lost.  _

_ “Never,” he answered her.  _

_ “But don’t you miss your wings?”  _

_ Clint looked at her and shook his head sorrowfully. “I miss them every single day.” _

***

Fury paced his office. 

Phil was already seated inside, glass of scotch in hand, leaning into the couch as best he could. He was dirtying the dark leather couch with alley stains, blood, and grime, but he gave no fucks about it. Instead, he gingerly sipped on his alcohol and waited for his friend’s eminent explosion.

“WHAT THE FLYING FUCK, CHEESE?! ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT A  _ PUNK-ASS KID _ SNUCK UP ON YOU?  _ IN AN ALLEY _ WHILE YOU WERE CHASING VON STRUCKER?”

Phil downed his scotch and nodded. “Yes,” he confirmed, “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He pulled back the scotch and braced himself for the next outburst. 

“HOW THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN?”

There it was. 

“I don’t know,” Phil answered honestly, “One minute, I was chasing down Hydra goons and the next minute, there was a flash of something running faster than me, and he was there, Nick, with the bullet wound on his thigh that was meant for me.” 

Fury gave him an unimpressed look. “And you what, cheese? You decided to bring him to HQ and get him free medical benefits, is that what you thought?” 

“It’s coming out of my personal account. Whatever SHIELD doesn’t want to pay for.” Phil replied in a matter-of-fact tone. 

“That’s not the point.” Fury growled, throwing his hands in frustration. “You brought him  _ here _ to SHIELD and he’s in fucking medical—” alarm bells cut him off “—what the  _ hell  _ is that?”

“Alarms, sir,” Phil deadpanned. 

“I know they’re goddamn alarms!” Fury bellowed. “But alarms for what?”

A knock on the door answered his inquiry. “Sir,” an agent came in with red-faced and breathing hard, “We’ve got a breach in the medical ward.”

“In the medical ward,” Fury repeated giving Phil a  _ look _ . “Do you know the origin of a breach, agent…?” 

“Ward, sir,” the agent, Ward, finished with a small head shake. “Sorry, sir. I’ll get to that right away, sir. I was sent by Commander Hill to inform you, sir.” 

“Go and what the hell is causing that racket!” Fury scowled and dismissed the agent with a wave. He turned around to face Phil with a knowing look on his face. “Did you hear that, Cheese? A breach in the  _ medical ward _ , would you fancy that. I hope it’s not a rogue agent you decided to bring into HQ.” 

Phil hid his grimace with the edge of his glass. “I sure hope not, sir.” 

Fury rolled his eyes. “Get out of my office and make sure that noise gets shut off before my ears bleed.” 

***

An hour later, Phil realized that it  _ was _ the stranger which he brought to HQ which caused the racket. It’s been an hour but there was still no sight of the stranger in any of the SHIELD corridors. None of the offices have been breached. The fire walls have been secured. No threats internally or externally were being launched in HQ. Nothing was amiss save for the missing  _ injured man _ from the alley. 

Phil stepped into his office and immediately knew that he was not alone. Taking his sidearm, he trained his gun to the intruder laying down on his couch and blinked. 

“What the hell?”

On the couch was the same man that they had spent the last hour trying to find and no one, absolutely no one, not even Phil himself, thought to look in his own goddamn office for the missing man. The said man looked more like a child than a man, asleep on Phil’s couch like he belonged there—battered and bloody with the I.V. tube still clinging to his bicep. Phil cursed when he saw the pool of back-tracked blood on his floor. 

“Idiot,” Phil mumbled, sheathing his Beretta and folding to his knees on the floor. 

The man’s eyes snapped open and he flinched away from Phil’s touch. 

“Clint,” Phil called out in the most level voice that he could manage, “Relax. I’m just taking out the I.V. tube, it’s making you lose blood. Okay? Don’t move.” He said in a gentle voice like he was cooing a child. 

Clint seemed to react positively to that. He offered his arm to Phil without a word but his eye were swimming with emotion—fear, uncertainty, and distrust. 

Phil worked the needle out as painlessly as he was taught to do. Clint did not even flinch when the needle was pulled free from his arm. Phil grabbed his handkerchief from the pocket pressed it into the wound. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You’ll feel light-headed for a while. Why’d you leave medical?” 

“Medical?” Clint parroted back like the word confused him. Then realization flooded his features. “Lost.” He said in a docile voice. It was the complete opposite of the man Phil met in the alley way. This wasn’t a war hardened soldier which Phil thought he was but a young man, barely out of his twenties. 

“I was lost.” The boy said in a soft voice. “I’m sorry.” 

A flood of  _ something _ blossomed in Phil’s chest. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sleep-addled youth finding comfort in his lumpy old sofa. 

“Sleep, Clint,” He insisted before he can even register his own voice. “I’ll be here. I’ll keep you safe. You need to recover from the blood loss. Sleep will help if you can’t eat yet. You may have experienced a bit of shock with the gunshot wound.” 

“I was shot?” The confusion in that tone was enough to tell Phil what he needed to know. He reached over the man’s eyes, hiding the clear blue that had shocked Phil when he first saw them. 

“Sleep.” He stressed, “We will talk more when you wake up.” 

That seemed to do it. Clint curled more into himself into the lumpy crevices of the couch. 

Phil clicked open the comm on his watch. “Marcus, I’ve got him. He’s been sleeping in my office. Request not for no course of action. I’ve got a gut feel about this guy.” 

There was less than a beat for Fury to reply. 

“ _ Your gut better not be your dick, Coulson _ .” 

“Permission to take him, sir.” 

“ _ Just get him off my goddamn base. He’s scaring the baby agents. _ ”

***

_ Venus was not often a fearful god. Of Zeus’ children, she possessed the beauty that words could never begin to describe. All the songs and the praises would fall short of describing her beauty. It was fitting that she be called the goddess of love, for the very mention of her features invoked it. Thus, she was capable of showing love beyond the other god’s capabilities.  _

_ She chose to forgive.  _

_ Venus dressed in pale cream cloths which served to emphasize the pinkish glow of her alabaster skin. Her hair was encrusted with many pearls, weightless as it moved around her, blond and light like the rays of the sun.  _

_ “Clinton, my child,” she greeted him with a warmth in her smile, not like the executioner with the figurative axe, “I’ve come bearing your judgement and your penance.” In her hand she held a small clear globe like a drop of water which retained its shape in her palm.  _

_ Natasha froze on Clint’s side. “Brother…”  _

_ “It’s alright, Tasha,” he told her, “I want my wings back. I’ll do anything.” _

_ “Anything?” Venus asked with a smile, offering the orb to Clint. _

_ Clint schooled his expression. “Anything, mother, I’ll get them back.” _

_ “Very well,” she nodded, passing him the orb. “Take a look at your next assignment, my child.” _

_ *** _

Sore and exhausted, Phil woke up when a loud bang from the bedroom startles him. He woke with a kink on the back of his head where his beat-up old couch didn’t give enough support and a twinge in his side where a spring dug while he slept. He padded barefoot into his bedroom and peaked inside. 

Clint was crouched beside the bed, holding his bargain lamp like a lance. It should look menacing if only it did not look so endearing to him. 

“Relax,” He said, raising his arms, palm-side out, to the other man’s direction, “I’m unarmed. No need to ruin a perfectly good reading lamp. I happen to like that lamp.” 

Clint didn’t move. 

Used to handling assassin, rogue mercenaries, or stubborn agents, Phil tugged his sweats by the thighs and sat down on his floor. He had never been more thankful for splurging on carpets when he first moved in. His knees and ass appreciated it. 

“My name is Phillip J. Coulson. You got shot on the thigh saving me. But my, erhm, bosses were uncomfortable with you staying in the office so I brought you here. This is my apartment. 3 rd floor. Easy access to the street. Multiple escape routes. There’s a fire exit on the window to your left—” Clint instantly edged closer to the window. 

“—but I wouldn’t recommend that you use it. The injury sustained on your thigh will hurt like a bitch. You’re still on morphine. Once that goes away, you’ll feel the full extent of that wound. Based on how you passed out, I’m guessing that it’s the first time that you were shot. You might experience shock.”

Clint looked like a trapped animal. 

“I won’t touch you,” Phil reassured, “I’m just here to repay what you did for me… you saved my life… and now I’m saving yours by treating that wound. So please, let me help you.” 

“Fine,” Clint rasped, putting down the lamp gentler than Phil expected, “But touch me wrong and I’ll split your balls and feed them to you.” 

Phil actually laughed at that, shaking his head. “No touching you wrong, got that. I assure you, Clint, that’s not going to be a problem.” 

***

Except, it was.

***

Phil quickly learned in the first week, which he dubbed as ‘Operation New Guy’ in his head, that Clint liked to literally be free as a hawk, bouncing, erhm, prancing around in his birthday suit on a normal basis. It drove Phil horny and insane. 

Now, while Phil can say that he was a SHIELD trained agent who was accustomed to seeing naked bodies of men and women in the field, in decontamination shower, or in the gym, on a regular basis. However, nothing could have prepared him for the chastity trial which was Clint’s tanned glory that looked like he was sculpted by the gods. 

Every single day was a challenge of Phil’s sanity. He faced waking up at the most in opportune times, when he was at his weakest, to eyefuls of naked skin and corded muscle of Clint sprawled on his sofa with the blankets kicked off. Those were the times he found it difficult to take a leak like a normal person and ended with him having a rub-off in the bathroom. 

“Clint,” Phil barked when he arrived home, seeing the pair of boxers in the entryway, “What did I tell you about leaving your clothes all over the apartment? Didn’t I tell you to clean-up after yourself?” He stepped inside and picked up the piece of cotton, only faintly avoiding the spicy dark musk that he has grown accustomed to associating with Clint. 

“I am!” came the petulant protest from somewhere in the kitchen. “I’m cleaning up after myself in the kitchen!” 

Seeing pieces of clothing all over his apartment was never a good sign.  Phil followed the smell with his nose. It was an aromatic scent of garlic, basil, and tomatoes. He was not prepared for Clint’s ass to be presented in the air while the blond was toweling spilled red gunk from the tile floor. Phil felt his face match the tomato color. 

“What are you doing?” He asked, fixing his trousers before stepping inside. He took of his coat and draped it casually over an arm to hide his little problem. 

“Hey, Phil,” Clint greeted back cheekily, peeking over his shoulder as if he wasn’t naked in front of Phil, balls heavy and dangling between his parted thighs, swinging with every stroke. “I’m just cleaning up some of the sauce when it boiled over. I made Chicken Puff pastries today. I think you’ll like ’em.” 

In the course of a week, Clint had taken over all the domestic duties of keeping a house and ensuring that Phil was better fed than he was when he used to visit his grandmother’s house. Phil ate three balanced meals a day; a hearty breakfast, a packed lunch, and dinner was always fresh when he got home. It was a little bit like stepping into a fairytale.

“What did I say about cooking naked? Aren’t you concerned about you, ehrm, man bits getting stuck in weird places?” Phil asked, slumping down on a stool and visibly  _ avoiding _ the view. He turned the opposite side and rubbed his hand over his face, unknowingly still clutching onto Clint’s discarded boxers. He flinched when he realized he had  _ inhaled  _ it. 

Clint made a disgruntled noise and scooped most of the mess into the waste bin. His chest was even worse than his backside, covered in white flour and bits of dough sticking into places that Phil rather would not think about. “You also told me to keep my clothes clean. So I did. They’re over there—” he points to the dining chair, “—see? And my man bits are fine. Do you wanna check yourself?” 

“No thanks,” Phil rolled his eye, “but I think dinner smells delicious.” He said still making it a point to look away while Clint dressed. He was amazed how the concept of clothes were foreign to a man who had been wearing a weird entirely black ensemble when they first met. He has made no progress into finding out the man’s past. But he hasn’t been untrustworthy yet, so Phil let the issue slide. 

_ ‘Why did you take that bullet for me?’ _ Phil kept thinking in his head. 

***

Then, the dreams arrived.

***

The first night Phil dreamt of when he was eight years old, skating in the part with his older brother and younger sister. 

_ It was a bright and sunny day. Fresh snow had fallen overnight and covered the ground in a thick layer of white happiness which the children in his neighborhood dove into with glee. All the kids in his street had woken up earlier than usual just to relish in the cold winter chill of freshly fallen snow for themselves before everything turned to sludge.  _

_ Christine, his sister, pulled both of her older brothers by the scruff and bullied them to the nearby lake for round of skating. Henry and he heaved their skates on their shoulders and laughed the entire way there. Children scraped the ice with the blades of her skates. Merriment filled the air on the first day of snowfall.  _

_ They played and laughed and skated until the sun rose high and their cheeks were pink with exhaustion. Then, Christy began showing off her figure skating skills in the middle of the lake with her brothers circling around her. The weight of all the kids proved too much for the ice to handle. One of the neighborhood boys round-housed and caused a break in the ice.  _

_ “Christine!” Phil yelled, pulling his sister’s hand from where the ice began to crack.  _

_ “Phil!” he heard the simultaneous calls from his siblings as he plunged into the darkness.  _

_ ‘Don’t die.’ He heard a third voice say, ‘Idiot boy, don’t die.’ A hand covered his own as he was scrabbling to reach the edge of the water. It gripped him with two solid warm hands on his wrists and pulled him upward. His fingers touched the ice ledge and he gripped it with all his might.  _

_ For a moment, just a moment, he thought he saw a different face peering down at him.  _

_ “Phil,” his brother’s relieved face greeted him when he opened his eyes, “You’re alive. We thought he went under.”  _

_ Phil was too frozen too talk. He wanted to thank his brother for the help, for grabbing his hand, for saving his life. But, deep down, he had a feeling in his gut that it wasn’t his brother’s hand who led him out of the water.  _

***

The second night Phil dreamt of the time that he lost control of sled when he was ten. 

_ Again, it was the three siblings out for another snow day. Phil had received a brand new Captain America shield sled that Christmas and he wanted to try it out on the first opportunity that he got. Henry and Christine were happy to oblige him. They went to the hill nearest their house, trudging their way up to the top with their snow gear, and prepared to slide down.  _

_ “Be careful down the hill, Phil,” his brother warned him, pointing to the optimal side to slide, “Don’t veer off his slope. Be careful of the cars and you’re using a round sled.”  _

_ “Relax, Henn,” Phil waved the older boy off, “I’ve done this before. Loads of times!”  _

_ Henry, in response, ruffled his hair and went behind him. “Ready, little bro?”  _

_ Phil lowered his Captain America replica goggles and the Howling Commandos’ helmet. His grin was ear to ear as he held the edges of his sled with gloved hands. “Push me!” he demanded, “Come on, Henn, push me, push me!”  _

_ Henry laughed heartily and pushed.  _

_ Phil saw a flash of yellow in the corner of his eye before his brother cursed loudly from behind him. He whipped around. Henry was yelling at him but he was speeding down the hill too fast. “HENRY!!!” He yelled at the top of his lungs, at the very loudest that he could, but his voice couldn’t reach his brother.  _

_ He sped down the slope in the wrong direction. He was headed for the cars!  _

_ ‘Help’ was all he could think of. ‘Help, help, help, I don’t want to die.’  _

_ “Bend down,” a voice whispered in his ear.  _

_ “What?!” he shouted to the phantom voice.  _

_ “Bend down, chin to the hands.” The voice told him and he reluctantly followed.  _

_ “Please,” Phil cried, snot dripping down his face. “Please,” he begged, “Please don’t let me die.”  _

_ “I won’t,” the voice promised.  _

_ It was a miracle how he survived, skidding across the highway right between the rushing cars like they were playing a weird and very dangerous game of tag. Phil, by a miracle of god, skid past all of the oncoming traffic and ended up hitting a tree on the other side of the road. _

_ “Ompf!” Phil mumbled as he hit went head it head first. “Owwww!” he muttered when he emerged from the snow pile which had fallen on him.  _

_ “Christ, Phil!” Henry exclaimed, sliding beside Phil on his knees. He gave Phil a bone-crushing hug. “I thought you were a goner!” _

_ “Phiiiiiiiil!” Christy wailed, joining the hug. “I thought—I thought—t—” she hiccupped as she cried, clinging to Phil like snake. “Phillllippp!”  _

_ “Hey, hey, hey!” Phil complained, trying to claw his way out of his siblings’ limbs. “I can’t breathe! Let me go! Oww, oww, oww—w” he spit out a bloody tooth and grinned at them. “Hey look! I get a nickel from the tooth fairy, don’t I?” _

_ *** _

The third time that Phil dreamt, it was the day he realized that he wasn’t meant for baseball. 

_ Phil tied his spikes for the nth time, checking and rechecking that they were laced properly to avoid slipping off his feet when he made his fantastic slide-on-the-base save. All he had to do was hit the ball, make it fly higher and farther than any of the other boys, and slide to the home plate in one go. At the very least, he would accept not being outed by a fly-ball and skidding to first base.  _

_ His brother was already on the team and his sister was in the bleachers cheering him on. It was embarrassing to have overwhelming familial support during try-outs. Yet, all he can feel was pride with how much love and support he had. _

_ He had passed the catch-and-throw part with ease. Although, he was certain that he will not make pitcher. He was a good thrower with moderate aim and good speed. The next challenge was hitting three different kinds of pitches.  _

_ Phil stood to the side with one of the upper classmate varsity members, practicing his swing. He saw a flash of something purple moving at the speed of light. In a second, the air was knocked out of his lung like an arm had been thrown around his midsection and pulled him to the side. He was caught by a rogue baseball bat by one of his aimlessly swinging batch mates.  _

_ His word spun and, amidst all that confusion, he was sure that a shadow covered his eyes from the sunlight. But, when he later asked his brother about it, Henry swore that Phil had fallen over like a sack of potatoes in the middle of the uncovered field.  _

_ *** _

The fourth time, Phil dreamt of his scariest childhood experience—nearly falling to his death during a routine camping trip in the National Park. 

_ Phil was a boy scout. He was fourteen the first time he went on a trip alone. He was excited out of his mind at the prospect of going on this wild, wild, adventure by himself. It was just him, his round pack, and the wilderness.  _

_ His troop was crossing over a deep trench when it happened. Below them was at least a fifty foot drop to the cold, rapid river down below. They used an old rickety foot bridge which was used by the scouts for generations. For most first timers, crossing meant a rite of passage to becoming a true boy scout—a test of courage, honor, and brotherhood. All that meant nothing when the bridge finally gave way.  _

_ “Coulson, run!” Their troop leader bellowed, red-faced, as the bridge began its collapse.  _

_ Phil did.  _

_ He ran with his thick mud caked boots, stomping across one plank to the other when—a flash of something shiny, bright, and purple shot out from the corner of his eyes. That’s when he fell. His foot broke clean through one of the planks and the rest of his body followed.  _

_ “Help!” he shouted back, struggling, “Somebody, please! Help me!”  _

_ “COULSON!” he heard Jameson yelling from the side. “Grab the rope! Grab the rope!”  _

_ Phil was frantic. _

_ His feet dangled below him.  _

_ His arms were slipping off his hold.  _

_ “Please,” he begged, closing his eyes, “I don’t want to die. Please.”  _

_ “Phil,” a familiar voice whispered into his ear. _

_ Fear gripped him. He could not open his eyes.  _

_ “Please,” he pleaded instead, “Please don’t let me die.”  _

_ A breeze from the trees picked up, brushing warm air across his cheeks. Despite the screaming of his troop leader, the roaring of his fellow scouts, the loud beating of his heart, Phil heard the rustle of feathers right behind him.  _

_ “Of course, I won’t. I already made a promise.” He heard the voice tell him. Something—someone—pulled him up by the arms. Phil’s eyes shot wide open but it was against the light. He saw the shadow beside him, hands holding onto his forearms, a lopsided grin, and a sunlight crown.  _

_ “Hey, Phil,” the angel said to him, “You’ve got to grab onto the rope now. Can you do that?”  _

_ Phil nodded as if everything was in slow motion. The fingers on his forearm were warm, firm, and steady. The grip never tightened, loosened, or faltered even as he heaved his body up onto the plank. He felt weightless as he crawled onto the safety of the wooden plank.  _

_ Then, to make up for lost time, everything sped up three-fold in the blink of his eye.  _

_ “Coulson,” Jameson crouched in front of him, waving a hand over his face, “Are you okay?”  _

_ Phil’s head snapped back to the broken drawbridge then.  _

_ It was empty.  _

_ “Coulson?”  _

_ “I’m fine.” Phil managed to say evenly despite his bran going miles a minutes. “I’m alive.”  _

_ *** _

That fourth night, Phil woke up not alone. He woke up feeling like he was on fire, like every nerve in his body was a flame, like every pore in his body was excreting sweat. He knew, just by the feel, that his eyes were bloodshot. 

Something held him down. 

Clint on his side, laying down cuddled into his chest, strong tanned arms wrapped around his middle, leg intertwined with his like a vine, murmuring in his sleep. 

“No,” the blond mumbled over and over again, “No, please, don’t take them, please.” But the rest of it was incoherent or in another language. Phil’s sleep-addled mind couldn’t comprehend the words. He could only  _ feel  _ the whirlwind of Clint’s emotion thrumming under his skin. 

Phil did not have the heart to push the young man away. 

“Clint,” he whispered, gently tugging on the naked shoulder. “Clint it’s a dream.” It mattered not why he couldn’t remember bringing a Clint into his bed. “Clint, you’re dreaming. Clint!” 

Clint’s face scrunched up like the man was in pain. He opened his mouth in a broken silent scream, twisted in an unfathomable agony that he couldn’t escape. He twisted in his sleep, kicking and punching and body curling into a small child-like ball. 

Phil’s heart broke a little at the defeated whimper from Clint’s lips. He forgot about his dream and all that went with it. Instead, he fought tooth and nail to ease the phantom pain in Clint’s dream. 

***

He stayed awake the rest of the night. 

***

In the morning, Phil trudged into SHIELD feeling like he was asleep on his feet. He left Clint sleeping on his bed instead of his couch and went straight to the Director’s office. Fury was already inside. He gave his friend a look and silently grabbed the hidden bottle of scotch. 

“You’re still alive,” was what Fury first told him. 

Phil downed his finger of scotch without a wince and replied, “Not for long.” 

Fury raised his eyebrow, “Explain.” 

“I’ve been having dreams,” Phil confessed. He gave Fury a look to quiet his protest, “Stop it. Don’t say anything and listen. The kid that I rescued. He’s been invading my dreams now too—” he glared at Fury’s mischievous grin, “—no, not like that. They were dreams, Nick, from my  _ childhood _ !”

Fury made a face. “Disgusting, Cheese, even I wouldn’t go that far.” 

Phil merely rolled his eyes. “Fine. Listen to what you want to hear. But I swear to god, Nick. It wasn’t just dreams. It was like… there’s always been a phantom presence in my life.” 

“Phil,” Fury said, being serious for the first time today, “I’ve grown up all my life thinking I was another man. Only to realize  _ who  _ my father was and what I was meant to do. SHIELD draws a certain type of archetype. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d had that phantom over your shoulder for longer than you realized.” 

Phil didn’t answer. 

“If you’re done having an existential crisis. I need you to find me a new sniper. We’ve got a presidential assassination that we need to stop. Maybe that boy of yours can be more use here than at home.”

Phil gave him an unimpressed look. “I thought you didn’t like him scaring away the baby agents?”

“Baby agents don’t save presidential candidates some election season.”  

***

Phil came home later than usual that night. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself in work and forget his dreams, the naked young temptation in his apartment, and his need for a new sniper. But he knew that he could not run away from his responsibilities. 

Clint was there, wearing on of Phil’s old jacket and boxers, asleep on the couch. 

“Phil?” Clint groggily asked, rubbing his hands at the direction of the door, “You’re finally home. Did I… I guess I did. Haha. Sorry for falling asleep.”

Phil was overcome by the  _ domesticity _ of it all. It had already been a two-weeks since Clint saved his life. The bullet wound had long healed but Phil couldn’t find it in himself to let the younger man go. He doesn’t want to go back to the time Clint wasn’t around to welcome him home. 

He realized, belatedly, that he started to think of his apartment as a  _ home _ again rather than a place to bunk down after a hard mission. 

“No,” Phil shook his head. “I’m sorry I was home late. There was, erhm, something in the office.” 

Clint stood up, toe to toe with Phil, making a noncommittal noise as he helped Phil out of his suit. “ _ Something _ in your office sounds dangerous. Anything I can help with?” 

Phil found that he liked being cared for too. It made him laugh uneasily. What was happening? Sharing his life with a virtual stranger and putting more trust in Clint than any of his agents. “Unless you can find me a good sniper in the next twenty-four hours, than that’s a no.” He joked.

Clint froze, hand hovering with his tie. 

“Clint?” 

“Do you…” Clint said unsteadily, “do you mean that?” he asked, fingers minutely tightening on the cotton fabric. 

“Of course not, silly.” Phil replied with a sudden urge to comfort the young man in front of him. “No, Clint. What you did, saving my life, that’s the ultimate gift anyone could have ever given me. You being here, staying here—”  _ staying with me _ “—is enough.”

“Even if you know nothing about me?” 

This time it was Phil who was stunned. “Yes,” he said after a few minutes, “I don’t have to know everything about you, Clint. Everyone has their secrets.” 

Something in Clint’s eyes spoke volumes. Phil can see the same emotions from the very first time that their eyes met in Phil’s office. He had thought that he removed all those uncertainties already. Apparently, he was wrong. Clint was still scared and he had no idea why. 

“Come on,” Phil suggested, pulling his tie from Clint’s hand, vaguely aware of how they were pressed front-to-front, “Let’s heat up the feast you’ve made and let’s go to bed.” 

Clint stammered at the last part. “Bed? Together?” 

Phil blushed. “That’s uhm, it’s not…” he steeled himself for the next part, “Yes,” he nodded, “if you want to, that is, even just to sleep. I… I prefer not to sleep alone. Don’t you?” 

Clint positively beamed. “Yes, me too.” 

That night, they both fell into a peaceful slumber.

***

Clint woke up with a startle. 

He immediately felt for a Beretta that Phil kept underneath the pillow. He was too slow. Even before he could move a muscle, a small sharp blade was pressed against his throat. He stilled, eyes opening wide even if he didn’t need to  _ see _ who was in the room with them. 

“Tasha,” he greeted in a low voice, “What brings you here?” he asked, faux casual. 

“Fool,” she hissed back, digging the knife harder onto his throat, drawing blood. “Have you spent so much time pretending to be mortal that you’ve forgotten why mother sent you here?” Her normally emerald green eyes were angry red to match her fiery hair. 

Clint shot the sleeping Phil a glance. 

“Eyes here, Clint.” She barked, guiding his chin with the blade. “You know how this works. He’s under an enchantment. He won’t wake up. It’s the perfect opportunity to fulfill your mission.”

Clint’s eyes shot open for different reasons. His face melted. Natasha saw his reluctance. 

“Clint,” she warned, eyes dark. 

“Tasha,” he choked back, fighting with himself not to squirm. 

She pulled back, fingers gripping the handle so hard that her knuckles turned snow white, her lips pressed in a thin line like she was struggling back the retort on her tongue. She looked at him warningly. For a second, Clint thought that she might do it, that she might kill him to save him from his own misery, but she didn’t. She flipped her blade and offered him the handle. 

“Take it,” she said, waving the creamy marble base in front of his face, “Mom sent this for you. Since you lost your bow when you fell. You know what you must to do to get your wings back.” 

“A mortal life for a mortal love,” Clint whispered back, shaky fingers taking the seraphim dagger. His face was a blank mask, cold and hard like the marble handle. “How long do I have?” 

She looked at him incredulously. “You aren’t doing it now?” 

He shook his head. “No,” he replied honestly, “not yet. I still have time, Tasha… I… just let me be selfish a little more.” 

Her face betrayed nothing. “Until the next moon, Clint,” she told him, “If not, the gods will seal your faith. You remember the legends, right?” 

“White foam surrounded the immortal flesh…” Clint recited.

“…and from the same foam she will melt.” Natasha ended with a sorrowful expression to him, “You must know what you must do, brother.” 

“He hasn’t figured it out, Tasha,” Clint argued, eyes dim. 

“But he will,” Natasha cupped a palm over his shoulder and squeezed, “they always do.” 

“I know Tasha,” Clint replied barely above a whisper, “I know.” 

She was gone the next instant. 

Phil shuffled in his sleep. “Clint? Are you awake?” 

Clint turned, blade clutched behind his back. “Yeah,” he murmured back, nuzzling his face into Phil’s jaw, “just a bad dream.” 

“Come here,” Phil urged, still groggy from sleep, moving an arm around Clint’s middle. “I’m here.” 

‘Yes,’ Clint’s mind betrayed him, ‘—for now.’

***

Phil’s mission brought him to the mountains of Tibet where a guerilla army planned on assassinating the last Dali Lama. He found a sniper, Agent Melinda May, one of his old partners from when he was a field agent in SHIELD. She was retired but he convinced her to take one more mission for him. She agreed. 

It was cold in the mountains at night and dark unlike anything Phil had ever experience in the boy’s scouts. Back then, there had always been a camp light, a fire light, or a torch light to guide the way. Now, they had nothing but starlight illuminating their path and the moonshine making shadows out of darkness. 

May was hiding in the trees. 

Phil was playing the bait. 

“Watch your twenty,” May warned him, just before everything went to hell. 

Bullets flew. 

May screamed in his ear. 

There were gunshots hitting the ninja’s going at him. 

The Dali Lama turned out to be a fake. 

More screaming. 

More gunshots. 

His ears run. 

“I’m coming to get you,” May told him over the comm. “Watch your back until I get there.” 

Phil scoffed as he fought three assailants at the same time. Hitting them on the head, elbowing them on the back, kicking them in the stomach. It felt like there was an unending number of reinforcements from the opposing side while SHIELD only sent two agents. 

“Phil!” he heard a voice call him. It was  _ not _ his back-up. 

“Clint?!” He yelled in surprise, barely missing a guy socking him on the head. “What—what the hell are you doing here?” he demanded between dodging blows. 

“I thought you already know.” Clint said with a smirk, holding his ground between bad guys like a seasoned professional. But his blows weren’t lethal. They were well-placed to maim but not kill. One by one, bad guy after bad guy went down like a sack of potatoes. 

Of course, of course Phil knew, he had an inkling for a while now. 

“You’re my guardian angel,” Phil deadpanned as guy went cartwheeling for his head. He caught the guy’s feet with his hands and used the momentum to his advantage. 

“Huh,” Clint made an unimpressed sound, “Well… not exactly.” He said with an uneasy laugh. “Angel, sure, some call us that.” 

Together, they  _ demolished _ the ground tropes of the other side, back-to-back, like two pieces of a puzzle. 

“Phil!” Melinda’s voice broke their momentum. Clint faltered. Phil broke a guy’s neck two seconds too soon. 

“Don’t!” Phil yelled, seeing her gun trained on Clint, “He’s a friendly!” 

Clint whipped around, his back facing Melinda. 

“I don’t think that’s what he’s talking about. New flash, Phil, she can’t see me.” He told Phil, taking the sheathed seraphim dagger from his boots. “Guess my time is up, huh?” 

“What?” Phil never got an answer. 

It was like things happened in slow motion. 

Clint threw the dagger and May fired her weapon. 

Behind him, a ninja-assassin had an arrow trained on Phil, poised to kill. 

Clint’s dagger flew true and hit the guy in the opened eye. But it was too late. The guys yelped in pain and released the wobbly arrow, headed straight for them. 

***

Cupids had one golden rule: never fall in love with a mortal. 

***

Phil dreamt. 

He dreamt back the time when he was twenty-five. 

_ “Alright, pussies,” the base commander told them, “one of you unlucky sons of bitches had patrol duty on their first weekend here.” He said, bringing a handful of straws to eye-level. “Pick your destinies.”  _

_ Phil was one of the soldier who groaned. He waited until only three remained to pick his straw, praying, desperately to get a long straw and stay on base so that he could sleep the jet lag off.  _

_ “Not that one,” a voice whispered in his ear at the last second, making him clamp down on the left straw instead of the middle.  _

_ “What the?” he mumbled, pulling the short straw and hearing the base commander laugh.  _

_ “Looks like we’ve got a winner.”  _

_ Phil remembered feeling mad at the voice, angry that he was going out, on his first night on base, to go patrol the borders of some unknown village. He grumbled as he pulled on his pack, not bothering to bring his things to the tent before they were shuffled into their all-terrain tanks to start the duty.  _

_ The weather was hot and blistering. His fatigues were drenched in sweat. Sweat clung into creases that he never knew existed until today. They patrolled through the heated desserts until the coldness of the land almost froze them when night came.  _

_ “I’m sorry,” someone apologized to him in the middle of the night, “This was the only way to keep you safe.” _

_ At that moment, Phil did not understand.  _

_ It wasn’t until they came back to camp the following morning that Phil realized that he was one of the lucky ones to come out of that war alive. Marcus Johnson was another one.  _

_ “Those assholes.” Marcus cursed, seeing their base camp in nothing but shambles, “It was an airstrike last night. The drones overhead weren’t friendlies.”  _

_ The rest of their platoon was sent home.  _

_ “I’m staying,” Phil said, looking over the crater.  _

_ Another man stepped up beside him, “Good to know that there are still honorable men left to serve with.” Marcus told him.  _

_ The terrorist cell was nearly impenetrable. If they were a bigger strike team, they would have easily been caught. But, as it was, the two of them managed to get into the base camp undetected. They went to the leader first, slitting his throat after killing off his guards, leaving no one alive in their small compound—not even women or children.  _

_ Then, the inevitable happened.  _

_ They forgot the small boy huddled in the corner holding his father’s gun. It was aimed straight at Phil.  _

_ “Phil!” Marcus shouted in time with the gunshot.  _

_ Phil saw feathers—large, majestic, purple feathers—shielding him in the speed of light and heard a grunt-moan come from above him. He saw the splatter of blood, the spit of saliva, and the droplets of sweat falling on his face.  _

_ He looked up and saw a boy, much younger than him, with a wry smile on crooked lips.  _

_ “Idiot,” the blond boy muttered, “You’ve always been trouble.”  _

***

Phil bolted awake, screaming hell. 

“Clint!” he yelled, frantic and wild, throwing off the sheets, “Clint! Clint!” 

Nick walked in, much like he had all those years ago, sans the fatigue and in a leather coat instead, with an eye-patch instead of a makeshift hospital bandage around his head. He wore the same thin expression on his face all those years ago, in a very similar circumstance. 

“You lucky goddamn son of a bitch,” he said in lieu of a greeting, “You’re still alive.” 

“Clint,” was the first word Phil said, “Where’s Clint? The blond. The guys who saved me. The  _ angel,  _ Marcus, the angel who has been saving me all my fucking life. Where the hell is he? Don’t tell me—” he paled, “Please,” he said brokenly, “tell me he’s alive.” 

“The mission was a failure. But all our agents made it out alive.” 

“Marcus,” Phil’s eyes narrowed, “You’re dodging my question.” 

Nick smirked. “I’m saying, Cheese, is that all our  _ agents _ are out alive. Do you want to know how many?” 

Phil blinked, confused. “It was a two-man strike team—just me and May.” 

Something—someone—entered the room behind Nick, wearing black and  _ purple _ on his tactical suit with a large bow and arrow with purple fletching inside the black quiver. Spiky bond hair was on the man’s tanned head and his face looked like it was punched a few times too many. Then his arm, his goddamn arms, were roped his muscle. 

“Hey, sir,” the archer greeted with a lopsided grin, “did you miss me?” 

“Clint,” Phil breathed out, relieved and confused, “agent?” 

“Phil,” Nick cut in, “I’d like to introduce you to SHIELD’s newest recruit. Agent Clint Barton, designation: sniper. Mastery in alternative weapons.” 

“What?” Phil asked, puzzled, “Does that mean you’re…” he glanced at Clint uncertainly, “… you’re human now?” 

The world melted around Clint as he stepped closer to Phil’s bedside. He leaned in, his sweet and musky scent filling Phil’s nostrils like fresh air, and his voice cooing like a long lost lullaby. “I’ve made my choice, Phil, now that you can finally see me, I’m not going anywhere.” 

“But,” Phil thought aloud, “Your wings. They’d always been so beautiful.” Because now that he  _ knew _ , not he acknowledged it, now that he was unafraid to take it for what it really was, he remembered everything in vividly crisp detail. All those times, all those instances, all those second chances—all of them had been because of Clint saving his life over and over again. 

“You know,” Clint said, their fingers brushing together, “My brother once fell in love with a mortal woman and she now lives with us on Olympus. But, our mother never liked it. She didn’t like the idea of mortals coming to our realm to live with us. So she placed rules on her cupids." 

“No,” Phil whispered, slowly understanding, “No, you didn’t. Please say you didn’t.” 

Clint chuckled and kissed his cheek. “I did. Now, shut up and listen to my story. Then, I’ll kiss you.” 

Phil nodded weakly. “Okay.”

“Cupids cannot kill unless ordered by our mothers. Before, we were sent to kill those who dared challenge mother’s beauty. But then, my older brother’s wife happened. From then on, we are forbidden to fall in love with humans any more. If we do, we have to take back our hearts. We lose our wings so that we can come down to earth and take theirs.” 

He pulled out a marble. The blade of the seraphim dagger was gone. “This was supposed to kill you and give me back my wings. Otherwise, I can’t kill—” he stopped, pressing his lips together as if the next words pained him to say, “—but I did.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Phil told him, the hand without the I.V. drip coming up to hold Clint’s jaw. “I don’t want you to kill for me.” 

“I’ve made my choice, Phil,” Clint answered him. “I’m going to kiss you now.” 

Phil couldn’t help his smile. “Okay,” he nodded, leaning up to meet Clint halfway. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Questions? Concerns? Did everyone get the Greek mythology references and the laying on thick of Anderson little mermaid elements? :)) If yes, you get cookies! 
> 
> All things holy guys, give me some ideas here.  
> (And C/C comics I can read, seriously.)
> 
> If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr.


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